


Bad Blood

by IamandI



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blissful Pretentiousness, Gen, Mentioned Triggers, Rough Draft, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamandI/pseuds/IamandI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Master from a foreign land, a young Mentor still fresh in his position, an angry student and his kid brother, an ancient artifact that drives men mad, and a whole lot more mess than any one of them can clean up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstralFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rise from the Clay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/757118) by [AstralFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire/pseuds/AstralFire), [IamandI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamandI/pseuds/IamandI). 



> To Meep, who is literally the only reason this exists in the first place...

The alien boy stands silently in the foyer, looking lost, a bastard son among all the regalia of a proud family history that he will never really be a true part of. He stares up at the coat of arms hanging above his head with soft eyes, unsure of himself just as much as his surroundings, just before the double doors swing wide and a younger man, coppery-skinned and handsome with his heavy, contemplative brows and full lips, beckons him in. Altaïr proceeds without question or hesitation, keeping his sharp perception tuned on the boy - only about as young as him, which is young enough, but softened by a life of ease - while he passes. The hall is like the entrance to some grand cathedral, in some ways, spreading before him, intimidating and hallowed, sacred beyond the respect that he can offer. The floor, so much hard marble, is unrolled with luxuriously plush carpet, crimson and artfully spiraling with scrolls and banners, the gentle olive drab of ivy and the same sword-decked crest of a family to which he will never really belong, the open and beckoning want of something that ties him in hidden just within.

The delta, the chevron, but softer. A symbol that’s not tied to any known words. He is almost reticent to tread there, skirting the forlorn maria who holds her beloved son’s broken body, the caress of feeling coming from the pieta coating him in a gentle reverence. Polished, and carved teak walls welcome with their warm hazel hue, but do not embrace him. He passes like something unseen, while what feels like a thousand marble eyes and oil frowns stare into their own intimidating little worlds. Both young men are ghosts. The copper-cast youth tramples the coat of arms with an air of familiarity, caressing the silk-veiled face of some nameless Hellenic queen as he passes, feeling her white folds full of guilty pleasure in something that should be soft and light but is cold and hard beneath his fingertips.

He falls in shoulder to shoulder with the drab golden visitor, also not looking, also unnervingly quiet as though his guest was never there at all. Tapestried doorways shudder with veiled conversation, the whole household astir with whispers of a nameless master from a far away land they’ve never seen. If the foreign boy were less cowed by such austere surroundings, maybe he’d lift his voice to ask why they don’t peek, why they remain just out of sight, but the coppery one with his thick black hair bound by a crimson ribbon seems lost in his own thoughts, fingering the rounded metal buckle holding the leather that girds his narrow-tapered waist. His stroll is loose, a gentle flow next to the catlike prowl of the Syrian.

This is what he hears behind each woven divide. The Syrian Master. A son of none. A ghost with the blade and the Creed. Someone who comes bearing some wild and exotic gift. Someone who comes to speak with their shadowy master. He isn’t unused to this kind of chatter, but he’s not used to the plethora of diversity. The accents almost twine with one another, melding into some great and multinational fabric as beautiful and luxurious as the threaded coverings over the doors that depict battles and domesticities that have long passed over the face of this place. Altaïr brushes one as he passes, hears the familiar rattle of a tongue that spoke the language of his father once.

Umar. May he rest easy, because his son has followed the hard path that was set for him at birth. Altaïr, the boy prodigy, the pride of his Arabic roots, the shame of his mother’s more pacifistic ways. But he never knew his mother and strangely feels no shame for the dishonor she must wear on her head. It’s an ugly mark, he bears. He doesn’t even notice the way he carries his mutilated left hand close to his body. The mark is still fresh, still hurts him.

The endless tapestries open into a wide room, white and crisply clean, accented by teak and warm brown drapes, picture windows that suggest the age of this place, though it pales in comparison to the treasures that adorn the hall and the walls, seems modern compared to the stone masonry of the place in which he was born and learned his trade. The deep red glow of an antique mahogany desk commands the eye, and Altaïr hesitates at the door, even though the one showing him in simply saunters right through the sudden heaviness of the air with the ease of complacency and perhaps some sort of ignorance to it. The kid settles himself on a deep brown velvet settee, lounging a bit. The desk looms just aside, absurdly large, clean except for a black leather-bound planner and a wide, consummately elegant blotter, unmarked except for one note scrawled in the corner, elegant script that he can read even from here. Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. His name, but not his own signature in the snake scrawl of his motherland. What he hopes is just a knick knack of many, a paper weight, leers at him from its perch at the one corner of the desk.

The skull and its full set of teeth grins polished among many a bird skull, what looks like it may have belonged to a house cat once nestled behind, the laced teeth of a hard white dog’s skull - perhaps a wolf, even, from the overly pronounced eye teeth and the general sleekness of profile. A deep red Persian rug spreads, tying the room together almost gently. Altaïr pads near silently in simple leather-soled boots until he stands next to a sleek velvet-upholstered armchair that stands facing the desk at a slight, comforting angle, as though suggesting that the one sitting in it not necessarily be forced to face the scrutiny of the man behind the desk head-on.

Teeth pull at a scarred lip for a moment. It’s an old wound, one he acquired in childhood - from the sword of one of his own brothers - that never really healed to completion. The soft skin inside is unnaturally smooth to his tongue still, the eternal pocks from stitches still dotting its plush, weirdly massive length.

He nearly tears the old scar as the sound of footsteps rise from the open arch of a doorway, stands at strict and uncomfortable attention as the tall, elegant owner of this fine estate strolls into the room in no particular hurry, trim and smartly dressed, still wrapped up in a charcoal gray waistcoat and matching trousers, recently polished black leather dress shoes that are almost definitely as Italian as their owner. He steps in and gently hangs a fitted sports jacket on a hook on the wall and then turns, using both hands to pull back all the luxurious chestnut hair that was previously spilling down around his shoulders in order to tie it back loosely with a leather cord, plops down in his chair with little preamble. When he speaks, his voice is like warmed honey, smooth with a bite in the low tones, an even baritone that fills the room with the playful lilting of a strong Italian accent.

“Welcome to my home,” he purrs, “Please, make yourself comfortable. You’re a most welcome guest here…” He gestures to the armchair with some flourish, and though Altaïr hesitates at first, he lowers himself into the warm, plush confines of deep brown velvet. It nearly consumes him, makes it impossible to sit down at any sort of attention. After a moment of embarrassing swimming, he finally manages to perch on the very edge, noting the shit eating grin on the Italian’s face, for all of his previous politeness. He’s young, Altaïr realizes… much younger than the thin beard and heavy brows would suggest. He has the gently rounded face of someone with eternal youth, mildly heart shaped with a slight widow’s peak and somewhat prominent chin. He purses his full lips for a moment, then quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you already know, by now, my name is Ezio Auditore. This is my home, and the home of all of the men who serve at my side. Our brotherhood is based on the way of life your own ancestors created… so your being here is quite an honor for us… and perhaps an opportunity to learn from you, if that is your wish.”

“It is,” Altaïr replies quietly, lightly accented English. His voice sounds small in the room, but is rough and surprisingly gravelly for a boy his age. He keeps his bright ocher eyes fixed on Ezio’s - a soft, honey brown, but a very close shade to his own - knowing that the man expects something of him, but he’s not entirely sure what. There is no need for introduction, no need for pleasantries. And perhaps this is the difference between their worlds. Altaïr is spartan, needs little to survive, and expects no overtures of politeness with whom he deals on a regular basis. After a long pause in which Ezio clears his throat twice, Altaïr finally concedes. “I am Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad of Masyaf. I need say no more. You already know this.”

“Well,” Ezio replies fluidly, “I had hoped you would say it for me, since I’m still a little shaky on pronunciation. Italian and Arabic are about as far from one another as any two languages can be. Though I’m thankful we don’t require any translation. English is a nice common ground, after all.”

“Where I come from,” Altaïr states, tone cutting like a knife, “We speak out of necessity, and not out of a desire to fill the silence. I am grateful for the… pleasantries, but please, let’s focus on the business at hand.”

In all of his twenty-seven years, Ezio has never quite found himself struck dumb by such a comment, but here he sits in awed silence, head tilted and expression somewhat pained. He’s starting to realize that perhaps not all of their sister clans have been so gentle in handling their children. He nods slowly, and thinks for a moment, not quite about how to broach the subject, the reason for this young master being here, but instead, the right words for such a delicate concept. In the interim, he looks to the boy that showed Altaïr in - Connor, his true name being nigh on unpronounceable, sent here by old friend - and gently waves him off. Connor rises without complaint and exits without a sound. 

Once Altaïr is sure the boy is gone, Ezio ends up needing to say absolutely nothing. He withdraws a soft suede-leather pouch places it lightly on the heavy desk, noting the way the wood seems to warp beneath it, a sure sign of what witchcraft is hidden inside. Ezio looks worried, yet oddly calm, does not reach out to take the legendary object, wise for his years, Altaïr thinks.

“The apple,” he announces with a note of reverence, “An artifact left over from ages past. Its destructive power is unparallelled, and yet, only just a figment. It has little power over the physical, but it can sway even the most guarded of minds.” He starts to unfurl the bag and as it slips down, he wonders if Ezio sees what he does, a simple sphere, silvery-gold in color with deep lines etched over its surface, glowing warm and gold with a light all its own. Altaïr lifts the object in his hands, and as he does, it feels warm and soft, peach-fuzz in his hands like something alive, something with a will of its own. But really, he has seen through the illusion long before it could really solidify in his mind. His master, gone mad with power, had taught him long before how to see past the veil… had tempered the boy against the wiles of something so strong, even as he, himself, failed to do so.

He rolls the glowing orb in his hands for a moment while it whispers seductively into his mind, weaving images of the past, the future, a web of lies that are the many divergences of time and space… In one he sees himself, a much older man, kissing his son on the cheek before he goes down to his death in a time before the grind of industrialism. In another, he sees himself in a world ruled by a digital haze, where man is not bound by flesh and blood any more so much as by so much silicon and copper: wires and pins and glass wrapped in flesh, carved into bone. He sees many things, and takes them all with a grain of salt. If nothing else, this wondrous machine is a filthy liar. He places the orb on the table where it settles like a lead weight, not rolling, not even rocking. It just sits, as though the base were somehow flattened.

Ezio stays rooted to his seat, his hands folded lightly on the wood, unable to really say or do much because he is so nonplussed by what seems like a simple ball, but radiates a power he’s never felt before. He looks to the child master for a moment, then nods at the object, reaching a hand out to brush the surface with two fingers. There’s a sudden burst of light and the Italian withdraws as if he were burned, eyes wide. Altaïr can see the panic etched into his consciousness, sees the memories, and gently, he grasps the apple, places it back into the leather pouch in which it has lived for all of the time he has carried it. It goes cold and dead, and the pouch goes back to feeling like it contains little more than a smoothened river stone. Altaïr lets the Italian settle, lets him attempt to make sense of the things he’s been shown, and after a few tense moments, he finally speaks.

“So it is no myth. The thing is exactly as advertized…” he pauses a moment, then shakes his head, slack-jawed and disbelieving in what he’s just experienced. “ _Porco dio…_ ” He folds in on himself, clearly shaken, and not just by the power, but by something he was shown. Altaïr feels pity, almost brings himself to say something to comfort the man who is in obvious distress, but before he can, Ezio is already rising, pacing back and forth along the wide picture windows that open out onto the square and garden that lay just behind. He paces with his arms folded and broad shoulders squared, left hand lifting to finger his chin while he thinks, and Altaïr can see that this is an old path, oft traced in times of trouble. He remains in his seat, gently lowering the pouch with the apple safely hidden in his lap, thinking for a long time before he opens his mouth again.

“Some say this is the very apple that cast Adam and Eve from Eden… though I can’t speak for the veracity of such a claim, I can understand. But its power, you must realize, comes from deception. Nothing more. The best lies have a little truth to them, I know, but you cannot kill yourself thinking of what may or may not have been, what you could have done. Doubts are the little hesitations that get us killed. You must know this.”

From Ezio’s pained expression, he can tell that no, he can’t have heard the truth of this before. Altaïr rises, and though his stature is not so impressive, though his body is still boyish and underdeveloped and he still has the face of a child, there is something so uncannily old in his eyes, some wisdom that far surpasses his years. He steps around the side of the desk, leaving the apple to languish in the grip of the armchair, alone, and he can feel its yearning for his touch even so, haunting him. For now, though, he comes to Ezio’s side and places a delicately boned hand on his arm, supporting, perhaps a little more open than he necessarily would be.

“I will teach you,” he promises, “I’ve nowhere else to go. Surely you understand that.”

“I do.”

There’s a long pause before Ezio finally sighs and nods, lowers his heavy hand to cover Altaïr’s squeezing a little, though he starts, looking down at the fine digits lined up beneath his palm… There, where the ring finger should be, there is little more than the small, rounded nub, severed away at the second knuckle. Altaïr is not repelled by the sudden attention, but remains silent as the grave, face emotionless and unreadable. The scar is fresh… perhaps still painful, but it doesn’t seem to cause him and discomfort when Ezio takes that hand into both of his own to examine the way muscle and tendon were completely separated, the precision with which the digit was removed. He looks to Altaïr questioningly, but the boy only turns it around, gently takes Ezio’s left hand to run his finger over the burnt-in scar on his own ring finger. His eyes are soft, the color of wet sand on the beach, and he smiles a little, something that warms the hardness of his face, smooths the mask he wears, makes him seem more his age. He turns Ezio’s hand over, admiring a little.

“Soft,” he murmurs quietly, running a fingertip over the length of his lifeline, tracing it all the way down through the palm to the wrist. “My people demanded sacrifice before right was extended to us… to prove my dedication to the creed, and in order to wield the weapon of our fathers, I gave my flesh and bone. It is our way. I see that you also follow the custom, though it’s more ceremonial than anything else.”

“Yes,” Ezio replies gently, placing his free hand on one of Altaïr’s narrow shoulders, noting the seeming frailty of him, the way it seems like he has been mistreated, starved. “We… don’t understand the harshness of your ways. Perhaps… it’s just the difference in our cultures.”

“My father was forbidden from loving me,” Altaïr states, as if this were as normal a thing as breathing, and Ezio’s heart breaks into what feels like a million tiny shards, all digging at the same time. He grips Altaïr’s shoulder a little tighter, and the young master looks up to him, a breeze of confusion washing over him before he recovers. “I never knew my mother, really… though that was not something that anyone could have changed… just fate. It was as it was meant to be. I was bonded to my master as if he were my own flesh and blood. No earthly ties to any but our master and to our brothers… But I saw through the lies.” He sighs a little, thinking, gently squeezes Ezio’s hand and then breaks away. “It’s a story for another time. I’ll assume you’ve set up a place for me.

“Of course!” Ezio sputters, straightening up suddenly. “ _Cazzo_ , how rude of me! You must be tired… it’s a long journey you’ve made to come to this place.”

Altaïr nods as the man bustles along with some sense of urgency. There’s no need, really, so he slips to the armchair, retrieving the pouch in which the apple resides, gently looping the leather drawstrings over a notch in his belt and replacing the upper part of his almost ancient-looking robes to cover it. This is about the time that he notices that Ezio is staring, perhaps enamored, but offering no explanation. Ezio no longer sees a boy, but the man he will become, fine gossamer-white brocade catching light and reflecting it back, the full regalia flashing white, gently draped with the lustrous black of a Grandmaster. And then, like a flash, it’s the boy again, wearing the monkish white linen of his forefathers, the simple leather boots, hood folded back for now, draped over the loose upper meant for shoulder much broader than the ones that fill it.

“Come. We’ve set aside a place for you… and we’ll have a meal sent up, though I was told that I should ask you what you would like. A… the son of an old friend said that there are some things from which you might abstain…”

“I’m not picky,” the boy assures, falling in behind Ezio as the man leads him through an arch toward where the halls become private libraries, alcoves, the occasional lavish sitting room. “I prefer… less meat in my diet, though. It’s nothing to do with religious beliefs or health concerns… more or less just preference.”

“I’ll take that concern to the chef,” Ezio rumbles, though he sounds a little worried, already.

It’s far beyond what Altaïr was expecting, and a little smile crosses his scarred lips, though he’s not entirely sure why. He keeps up and wipes his expression again. There’s little conversation after that, and Ezio finally stops before the entrance to a rich red room, decorated in deep crimson and the occasional plush bloom of emerald. The bed looks roughly the size of a continent, decked with more pillows than any one man would ever need, and dressing the hardwood floor, a great, round Persian rug stretches languidly, begging to be used. It’s simply the most luxurious thing the boy has ever seen, and initially, he’s taken aback, more used to spartan rooms in which he squeezed himself into the most comfortingly small place.

Ezio notices the unease immediately.

“If it’s not to your liking, we can find you other accommodations, of course…” he offers almost gently, as if he may be interrupting something. Altaïr only shakes his head, though, stepping through the doorway like a deer coming out into a clearing. He stops by one of the tall, carved-wood bedposts, feeling the way the scrolls curl down its narrow girth, noting the lack of grit and dust even in this well hidden crevice. The blanket laid over the bed’s wide expanse is heavy and plush like velvet under his fingertips, and he has to wonder how all this lavish wealth came upon the Italian. As if reading his mind, Ezio speaks.

“My father was a banker. At least, that was his day job… I was groomed to follow in his footsteps… and in some ways, I still do, though what things my father did by night, I do on a pretty nine-to-five schedule, if you take my meaning.”

It’s almost sad, Altaïr thinks, feeding off of the emotions that radiate off of the elegant Italian standing no more than five feet away. Something happened, and he knows it, but he can’t quite put a finger on it just yet. That, he knows, will take some time… and perhaps they can swap stories soon enough. There’s much to discuss between the two of them.

“I think… this is more than sufficient,” Altaïr purrs softly, “Thank you… your generosity is overwhelming.”

He pauses for a while, then sets about removing his robes, notes the way that Ezio vanishes wordlessly, closing the door behind him in order to give the younger man some privacy. The layers shed away, and what’s revealed is a thin, wiry boy, carved as if from hard wood or stone, the starved frame of a man who has known lean times and simple surroundings. He has the physique of a killer, long and lean in all the right places, sculpted and chiseled to perfection by years of running, climbing, leaping, and falling. He toes off his unbuckled boots and steps out of them, standing naked as the day he was born in the warm sunlight pouring through the window. His reflection in a great, full-length mirror catches his eye, and he turns to examine his own body, seeing the changes that have come over the years, knowing that there are still more to come. It’s strange, he thinks, to feel as he does before his body has even finished growing into adulthood.

He smirks a little and turns, the deep, glossy scars marring his back like tiger stripes catching light as he does. There are clothes in the wardrobe for him, already folded neatly into place. They are simple things, meant to fit all manner of shapes and sizes, and he laughs because the thin t-shirt he puts on seems comically large on his slight frame. The pants are little more than pajamas, but he doesn’t mind. They are not unlike what he wears beneath his robes in form and function, though much less tight. He feels comfortable, though the attire is foreign.

A knock at the door startles him, and he rushes to stash the apple in a drawer, nestled among a pile of folded shirts. The boy who enters brings along with him a small platter laid out with various foods… dried and fresh fruits, a few slices of what looks like cold chicken, cheeses, and a few pieces of candied nuts. He smiles brightly, his face oddly familiar, though Altaïr thinks he has never seen eyes so strikingly blue against the almost mahogany backdrop of dark hair and warm, sunkissed skin. His gaze lingers, and the boy laughs at him - he must be a few years younger at least, but wears the red sash of a novice… one that looks like it could have come from his own clan.

“You’re an awkward one, aren’t you?” the boy chuckles, and though he’s softened now by youth, Altaïr can already see the sharp, hawkish features that will dominate his expression sooner or later. Yes… Altaïr thinks he knows now… those eyes are rare among those who are wholly of middle-eastern descent, and the hardness of this boy’s features are almost smoothened by a tamer, more European softness… a lot like his own very distinctive features, but this boy is dark… So dark and exotic that it makes his eyes burn. Altaïr attempts to shake it off as the boy settles the tray of food on the bed and climbs up to sit next to it. He can’t be more than fifteen, maybe even younger, and there’s an innocence to him that Altaïr just can’t ignore.

He tries again, this time in the familiar bark of Arabic, sliding so easily off his tongue as if it was his first and only language… and perhaps, Altaïr thinks, it is his first language. It must be, really. Altaïr struggles to catch up, to process what’s going on, but is largely unsuccessful before the boy is laughing at him again, though it’s far from mocking laughter… more a sort of bemused curiosity.

" _Ezio said you came from Syria. My brother and I came from that place too. We had to run away, because my brother said he didn’t want me to have to kill. Our father wouldn’t have wanted that, I guess._ ” He’s so easy in his explanations, so gentle and honest that it makes Altaïr feel ingenuine. He’s back to incomprehensibly stuttering as the boy hops off the bed again, picking a candied nut off of the tray, and while Altaïr flounders, unsure of whether to speak, run, or strike, the boy pops the sugary treat into his mouth, smiling wide. “They’re good, aren’t they? Ezio makes them for us sometimes. His are the best.”

Altaïr holds the sweet morsel on his tongue for a long while - unused to such decadence - then slowly chews, breaking the savory meat of the walnut up into the syrupy sweet of sugar and cinnamon, perhaps a dash of cardamom. His eyes widen, and the younger boy is laughing again, the sort of musical, side-split huffing that becomes contagious in a room full of people. Altaïr nearly trips over himself as the boy drags him to the bed and forces him to sit, stacking sharp white cheddar on one of the slices of meat and gently forcing it on the older boy, bit by bit feeding him the entire plate - though not without sneaking a few pieces himself. They share the candied nuts in silence, though the blue-eyed child smiles the whole time, perhaps caught up in his own thoughts. Altaïr watches him in bemused silence for a moment, and then, after a moment taken to collect himself, he speaks, slow and methodical.

“I… was raised at Masyaf.” It’s soft, perhaps a little shy, but entices more reaction from the boy than he expected, as though this single fact elevated him to a godlike status.

“You saw the castle?” he chirps, sitting up straight as a bolt. Despite himself, Altaïr warms, smiling a bit as he reaches up to brush a few crumbs from the corner of the boy’s mouth with all of the gentle patience of a much older sibling. He nods a little and sighs, staring off toward the sprawling view of the garden that his window gives him.

“It was… a very old place. Almost alive. You could feel the walls around you like they were breathing. And there were ghosts.”

“Real ghosts? Like in the movies?”

“No, not in that way, but sometimes, if I really focused on them, I could see them,” he notes the way the boy wilts when he dashes those hopes, but thinks for a moment, leans in and whispers. “I knew better than to go at night alone, though… because they said that little boys would go missing in the night, and nothing would be left but a pile of bloody clothes.”

“That’s awful!” the boy squawks, “It can’t be true!”

“Maybe it was,” Altaïr puffs, “Perhaps it wasn’t, but I never tried my luck. I wasn’t too keen on being some lonely old ghost’s dinner. Though I heard they liked chubby little boys more than stringy ones like me…” He pokes at the boy’s side, amused by the give, and the kid nearly jumps out of his skin, squeaking indignantly over the invasion of his privacy.

“I’m not chubby!” he barks, poking right back, but finding that there is very little give if any at all in Altaïr’s hard belly. He blinks and pokes again, face screwing up with equal parts concern and confusion.

"Alright, think what you like, but you’re still chubby to me, Chubby…” Altaïr chuckles, doesn’t fight it when the boy pounces on him playfully, attempting to tickle him into submission - admittedly with a good deal of success. 

“Okay, okay! You win,” he minces out between shaky breaths full of near silent laughter, squirming a bit and gently trying to push him off. “You win, Chubby.”

“My name is Kadar, not Chubby!”

“Kadar…” Altaïr rumbles thickly, and the blue eyed boy smiles that same, broad and unrelenting smile that he entered with and has been wearing almost constantly ever since. “Alright, then Kadar. You may call me Altaïr.”

“Altaïr?” the boy cocks his head like a puppy hearing a new sound for the first time. “You are Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad?”

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” the young assassin quips, gently poking at Kadar’s soft stomach, but the boy straddling his waist seems to have changed, perhaps distancing himself a little with a small frown on his face. Altaïr hesitates, feels himself instinctively putting up that wall, sensing that he’ll be alone in the world again just as soon as he thinks he’s made a friend. It’s always this way.

“Why do they call you a son of no one?” the boy asks, cheekily flopping down with his folded arms perched on Altaïr’s bunched chest. He doesn’t seem to notice the whuff of air it knocks out of the older boy’s lungs. “That’s what your name means, right?”

“It does…” Altaïr intones quietly, not sure how to really explain it. “But my father’s name was Umar… He… he bore that title as well. It’s just as it was supposed to remain, I guess…”

“Did you have a mother?” Kadar asks, clearly being eaten up by curiosity, but he seems to notice the way Altaïr tenses, becomes a little distant.

“Her name was Maud… I… don’t remember her very well,” he replies with some honesty. He closes his eyes and thinks, feeling Kadar get a little more comfortable. “She had… red hair. Soft red hair that smelled like honey and roses. And she was pale. Her eyes were gray. I do not remember much else.”

“I never met my mother either,” Kadar intones softly. “My brother and I… we’ve just always been on our own, I think… though he remembers our father better than I--”

“Kadar!”

The voice is sharp, almost spiteful. The boy springs up and off the bed, and Altaïr can both feel and hear the slap of bare feet on carpet and wood planks. Altaïr sits up slowly, his eyes flowing to the doorway where another stands, tall and lean, stretched by maturity, and very clearly well cut beneath his fitted clothing. His deep red-wine eyes are focused on the stranger with strict mistrust, lips pressed into a hard line. Altaïr thinks he can see some familiarity in the shape of those eyes and the hawkish nose, but his brow is heavy and prone to expressions of mistrust and upset, his jaw too heavy for them to be blood brothers. Both of them have the raven black hair of their homeland, though, and a few wiry hairs remain unkempt on this new boy’s chin.

“ _I’ve told you a million times, you aren’t to bother the guests. Perhaps he is a novice, but I doubt he wants you crawling all over him. You’re late for your lessons._ ” He uses their mother tongue like a lash, gives the younger boy a light swat on the back of the head. “ _Move! The Master will be furious!_ ”

Kadar is already on his way out, and this dark stranger looks like he’s about to just turn and leave, but Altaïr sends a clear shock through him, delighting in how awkward and unused the expression seems.

“ _He was not bothering me, I assure you, brother._ ”

The boy’s lip curls, then and he seems like he might strike out, but instead, he comes in and does something of a quick bow, never really taking his eyes off of Altaïr’s bird bright gold.

“Malik Al-Sayf. That was my brother, Kadar. I’m sorry if he’s caused you any grief.” Though it doesn’t sound a whole lot like he was expecting his brother to be the cause of that mentioned grief. Clearly Altaïr’s reputation precedes him.

“As I said, no harm, no foul, brother,” Altaïr returns somewhat lightly, standing to offer his hand, but getting nowhere, really. Malik stands at hard attention, peering at the offered hand as though it were a snake coiled to bite him. “He’s a good boy.”

“Exactly,” Malik growls. “I intend to keep him that way. Do not encourage him.”

There’s a sudden cold rift in the room, and the pleasant smile on Altaïr’s face drops. He glares sharply, his hand still offered, but it’s starting to seem more and more like a challenge… a wager in favor of Malik caving to his will. The bloody-eyed boy seems to have no intention of giving in any time soon.

“They call you ‘Master’,” Malik continues. “I see nothing worthy of such accolade. I assure you, _brother_ , that you will not put any stupid notions into my brother’s head. If you do, you will regret it deeply.”

And with that, he makes a dry spitting sound - an awful lot like a temperamental cat, Altaïr thinks - and turns on his heel, leaving without a word and with Altaïr’s extended hand just hanging in the air. It becomes a fist, falls to his side.

A rival already… It’s too bad, Altaïr thinks, that this Malik - this king of swords - doesn’t even understand what sort of fire he’s just started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect this to be a long time waiting in the wings on updates.
> 
> It started as just an exercise, and somehow it's panned out into something with a life entirely of its own. This is unrevised and will probably remain so until at least the next chapter, but if you spot an error (continuity or otherwise) please let me know and I'll jump on it asap.
> 
> Stay posted: New tags and warnings will almost definitely pop up as this progresses.


	2. A Flash of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I'd like to put out a few thank-you notes and love-hearts for some of the major inspirations in my life right now:
> 
> First of all, this chapter probably would not exist without the delightfully funny, one-of-a-kind [Allahdammit](http://mrasayf.tumblr.com/). (Go follow that Tumblr, kids!) Thanks for everything! You're wonderful!
> 
> Second, everyone who has any appreciation for piano should, by all means necessary, subscribe to [Evan Duffy's](https://www.youtube.com/user/evanduffycomposer) channel. This man's music is just unreal. Without this, I don't think much writing would ever happen, really. What an absolutely lovely human being. :)
> 
> Thanks to my sister who is putting up with my bullshit while I putter around in Atlanta, looking for a job. It hasn't been easy, but we'll keep truckin'. And a whole lot of love to the people who listen to me whine all the time (primarily [AstralFire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire) and [auntslappy282](http://archiveofourown.org/users/auntslappy282)). You both have so much more patience for my silly rambling than anyone ever should.
> 
> Last, but certainly not least, thank you to all of you who read these terrible things I put on here... you're all beautiful, wonderful human beings and deserve a million more cookies than I could ever possibly give you all.

Ezio sits exactly where Altaïr left him after a particularly energetic training session, arms folded lightly on his knees while he sits indian-style on the soft mats and back hunched up. He’s not breathing heavy anymore - it’s probably been a solid hour between - and Altaïr approaches cautiously, still glistening with water from the shower, barefoot and silent before he settles himself in front of the older man with a certain gracefulness that only comes from long practice and an impressive physical control. Ezio does not look up, seeming so withdrawn that he has little bearing on what’s going on around him. He lifts a hand, mouth drawing into a thin, flat line for a moment as he gets a grip on what his mind is telling him to speak, and then he seems to lose it again, lets his hand drop, looking so perfectly dejected. Altaïr is surprisingly sympathetic, taking that hand into both of his own.

For a long time, they remain thus, brought together by contact, brought together by a perfect silence that does not ask for much more than simple companionship… but it’s not meant to last. Altaïr knows that, because Ezio is a man of words and action, someone who is gifted with a silver tongue, though Altaïr imagines that it did not necessarily come through age and experience. Ezio has always had the ability to motivate people with little more than the words he speaks.

“It haunts me,” he finally sighs, holding Altaïr’s rough fingers just that little bit tighter. His own hands are so very soft… the gloves he wears prevents the tough skin of an accomplished climber. He turns their hands over to look at the missing digit, and despite the way Altaïr usually shies away from contact with anyone else, he allows Ezio to touch the pearly reddish scar tissue that puckers at the very tip of the severed digit, gently tracing the single length of bone leading back to the knuckle. He lets his fingertip rest on the rise of bone for a long moment, then, at length, he speaks, lowers his head a bit. “What the apple showed me… It… It was so real. I wanted to change it, but it was like watching a movie. I was stuck while my father and my brothers… they…”

He falls silent, shaking a little, and Altaïr gently closes his fingers over Ezio’s hand and holds on to it gently, thinking for a moment before he even tries to get to the meat of this. And then finally, he draws the older man in, knowing how awkward it might seem, but he comes easy, his heavy brow falling on a damp shoulder, almost burrowing into Altaïr’s neck. His stubble scratches, and Altaïr shudders at the warmth of the breaths that are spilling over his chest, coming more and more shaky. Ezio’s hands just remain limp in his lap and he sobs like a man broken by this great weight. Altaïr, though he has no reason, no real motivation to do much, instinctively reaches up and holds those broad shoulders like there’s nothing else to be done.

He waits for it to pass… and though the grief is clearly something he has lived with for a long time, the apple has exploited the old wound, opened it right back up again. Though he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, a hand slips up to pet the back of Ezio’s neck, slow and soft. He gathers himself slowly, then speaks.

“It’s nothing but a whisper. It’s a memory… though why it showed you that, I cannot say. Perhaps it was just a dream passing over the water. Memory is a funny thing.”

“I could have stopped it if I had only known,” Ezio bites out a little more sharply than he probably intended. Altaïr jolts a little, but remains dutifully in place, gently running his hand up and down the back of Ezio’s neck, from where the first soft hairs grow in down to the gentle notches of his spine where his back begins to stretch broad. The open, flowing shirt he wears gives no hint of the shape of his body where it hangs loose, but accentuates his hard planes and angles where it drapes. It looks like it belongs in a completely different time, and in a lot of ways, Altaïr finds himself wondering if Ezio might belong in a different time, as well. “It was like I could have done something… but…”

“Don’t let it consume you,” Altaïr replies softly, shaking his head and gathering the man in a little closer. There’s something there to suggest that the statement hit a nerve. “You can’t think this way. We only move one direction in time, and there’s very little time we’re given. You can’t spend it all living in the past. Please understand me. He gently tilts Ezio’s chin up, looking him in the eyes, hard and serious. “If you let go… if you let it have its way, my god, it will consume you, and I can’t bring myself to kill another master… You must understand now. I wish I had the time to teach you these things, but I am only a man, and I can only speak to you. You are the one who must do this, pierce the veil… You have to find the answers on your own.”

“I thought that blood would satisfy the debt,” Ezio admits quietly, “But there is no amount of revenge that would ever bring my family back. I still have my sister… my mother.”

“And they are all that matters to you now,” Altaïr replies with a smooth softness. “They are your life, now. Seek answers… but do not seek them to satisfy your own desires. Seek answers for others. Our goal is to make you wise now. You have all of the strength you need already.” He smiles, but Ezio can see the weariness in his eyes that a boy just shouldn’t have. He pauses for a long while, just looking back, and then finally, he raises a heavy hand.

Altaïr nearly jolts back in surprise as the Italian’s fingers brush over the plush rise of his lips, tracing the scar from where it begins at the leading edge of his cheek, down to where it curves a bit, splitting his chin away from the jaw, a deep notch that is slowly beginning to match the rest of his skin for color. He hears the question being asked before it ever even happens, and Altaïr finds he doesn’t know how to respond.

“Who could have done something so cruel to such a beautiful face?” Ezio pauses for a moment, though, thinking on it. “Perhaps they did not know how much more beautiful it would make you in the end…”

Altaïr thinks for a moment, then shakes his head slowly, holding on to the back of Ezio’s neck, their foreheads just barely touching, and there is heat in shared breaths. The intimacy brings up a longing for something that he has been denied for his whole life. He already knows that he will never find it here, so slow, soft, he begins to speak, starts to mentally distance himself from the man.

“The one who gave me this scar was as close to a brother as I ever had… while I lived at the compound at Masyaf, I was still young. Still foolish…” He thinks of a better way to tell the story, and with his eyes lightly shut, with the power inside of him, simmering and building every day, he taps memories that remain too painful to tell to just anyone. Instead of speaking, he finds that he is drawing Ezio’s knife from the place where it is sheathed at his hip. He backs away a bit, just to examine the glittering shard, drawing his thumb along the razor-sharp metal edge to bring out blood, and while Ezio watches him, almost mesmerized, he baptizes the man in crimson, gently drawing his scar across the older man’s lips. Ezio tastes, and it almost seems bitter… only for a moment.

“I am still young,” Altaïr sighs softly. “I will make mistakes…” He carries the knife upward, and though Ezio draws back a little at first, he says nothing, closes his eyes and tilts back his head as the sharp tip digs at his upper lip, tracing down, slow and methodical, dividing flesh. The bottom is worse… so much worse. He feels metal nip at his teeth, notch the gums as the carving game nears its finish, slicing all the way down to his chin. It feels like his whole mouth is filling with blood, and he does his best not to grimace and split the wound further than it already has. “But this mark has always reminded me that past sins catch up with us. Grudges can linger longer than just one lifetime. We are, all of us, made of the same thing, we are all the same. It is memory and experience that defines us. It is pain that reminds us. It is death that motivates us to keep moving forward. If you stop moving, you will stumble, be left by the wayside.”

Altaïr surveys his work, then sets the knife aside, knowing that Ezio is barely hanging onto his composure, shaking softly in his hands. There’s a long moment of silence where sharp amber eyes peer into darker brown, and it takes a moment, but there’s a sort of realization. Ezio stops shaking, warm blood dripping thick down Altaïr’s hard arms while he just lets go of the thought that has been plaguing him for all this time.

“You’re a man reborn, Ezio Auditore,” Altaïr murmurs, releasing him and rising to go get a doctor.

The sound of his voice makes Altaïr freeze, though. He turns, trying to make sense to the thick, clumsy English as it drips off of the man’s tongue the same way all this blood drips from his broken mouth. Altaïr turns to face him, holding the knot in his towel with one hand, staining the terrycloth deep. He strains his ears.

“Why do you have such peace?” he asks, eventually sliding his hands up to hold his torn lips. Altaïr just watches, bemused by the thought of anyone considering him peaceful.

“You may be opening your eyes for the first time, Ezio,” he states calmly, “but you’re still blind as ever.”

He leaves, makes the call, and then calmly showers again, dresses himself. It’s as if nothing ever happened when he emerges from the training hall in the labyrinthine basement to the bustle and commotion of what seems like a million students, all chattering about the Mentor’s terrible wounds, packed into the stairwell and halls above. They part like the Red Sea as the young master passes through, already knowing the cause of that vicious slash, though none of them seem shocked, none of them question him or lash out. Instead, all eyes are focused on the scar that divides one side of his mouth.

Altaïr returns to his room, undresses and pulls on his night clothes that he’s kept since the day he arrived, crawls up onto the bed and curls on his side. It’s taken him time to get used to the mattress, which is so much more elevated and softer than the rug and pillows he used to make his bed at Masyaf, but now that he has gotten used to it, he doesn’t much mind the way the soft padding seems to swallow him up. He watches birds flutter here and there in the garden, the mouth of the well yawning wide, the grate locked over it to keep foolish novices from falling in. He’s preoccupied, so he doesn’t even hear it when Kadar enters and crawls up onto the bed.

It’s become a nightly thing, almost: Altaïr returns from training the Mentor and his chosen Assassins and Veterans, and Kadar sneaks away from his strict brother in order to lock himself away with Altaïr and listen to his stories or perhaps learn a new skill here and there. His innocence and complete trust are refreshing, greatly appreciated.

When Altaïr says nothing, the boy knowingly pushes himself in close. He’s had a growth spurt in the last few weeks, and Altaïr can feel the way his body has changed, how he can almost hold Altaïr against him now, like a lover would. Of course, if it came to that sort of thing, though, Altaïr’s just certain that Kadar is still too young, still just beginning to learn about it all. Fourteen, he is, but seems much younger just for the way he carries himself, his perpetual cheerfulness… At seventeen, Altaïr already feels himself an old man. Outside, summer is winding down to fall. Soon, Kadar won’t be able to sneak away so often, and this room will seem empty and alone. That weight wears heavy on him.

“Malik did not return from his training…” Kadar murmurs into the soft skin at the back of Altaïr’s neck. His breaths are warm and damp. Soft hands and slowly strengthening arms wrap around him, holding tight around Altaïr’s ribs. There’s no expectation. No want. Altaïr gently threads his fingers into one of Kadar’s smaller hands and closes his eyes. “There were boys in the hall… they were saying that the master’s been hurt. One of them said it was you.”

There’s a long silence in which Altaïr is thinking of the massive sprawl beneath the grounds of this fantastic mansion, the carved stone pillars and gray stone bricks, the vaults and chambers, and the vast halls that stretch for what feels like miles, sunless and lit only by the occasional flickering fluorescent, and the deeper the vault, the more common it is to be lit by torches alone, the occasional ancient fixture. The training room is a massive vault, lined with pillars and the open floor has been renovated to be more comfortable for their more acrobatic activities, hidden away from any prying eyes. Altaïr’s mind is in the crypt, though, where the stone sarcophagi line the walls, the moved bones of ancients, people who were born and lived in places far removed from this place, but they have been laid to rest here, safe from the hands of those who would seek to desecrate their last earthly remnants.

He’d spent much time in that clean, damp room, his fingers tracing the faces of the dead as they slept in perfect silence, cold and hard, untouched by the weathering fingers of rain and snow, wind and dust. It’s a place of peace… one he almost wishes to return to now, but Kadar is warm behind him, even if the boy is utterly puzzled by the young master’s behavior. He returns to reality as Kadar’s soft lips brush the nape of his neck. He feels the warmth of young, confused love, the clumsy hands of a boy who is worshipful, but still afraid… and Altaïr responds the only way he knows how to. He vaults out of the bed and slips to the window in order to sit and watch the birds alone.

For a long time, Kadar remains in the bed, trying to figure out why he’s been spurned so, but eventually, he rises and comes to sit at Altaïr’s feet, resting his head in the older boy’s lap, arms folded lightly. There is no room for speaking for a long time, but eventually the boy lifts his voice, slow and tentative.

“Tell me a story.”

It’s a hard request to fill, now. Altaïr’s throat is tight and almost refuses to listen when he clears it. He thinks for a moment, and then slowly, quietly, he begins. It’s an old tale… something he’d read in Masyaf’s expansive library. Something that Kadar is obviously familiar with, if his lit eyes are any real indication. He’s barely through talking about Enkidu when Malik bursts into the room with eyes like a coal-fire and huffing steam into life like a bull, ready to charge this dumb little mortal, ready to hang him across sharp horns. Altaïr does not even pause, even though young Kadar is scrambling to his feet in a show of cold fear.

His brother’s temper is something he has clearly learned to give a wide berth. He shuffles to one side of the room just as Altaïr goes silent, looks to their visitor with such gentle supplication that it seems like he is a vestal virgin waiting to be ravaged by war. His golden eyes are full of a need to know why exactly this boy has burst in with such rage, but they do not pry, do not pull back the veil. He’s well aware of where this anger is coming from without even needing to pull him apart, as Malik storms across the room, head high like the regal creature he is, teeth flashing foxfire, begging to find flesh.

He lifts the young master by the collar of his shirt and shakes him the way a dog shakes a mouse, seeming to take delight in the way Altaïr’s head snaps. The master spills across the floor like a handful of diamonds. Kadar wonders how he doesn’t just break right through the floor, the way he lands. There is no fight in him, no desire to put Malik down, put him in his place. He just slowly begins to pick himself up, even as a boot meets his ribs with crushing force. He is the Christ on his cross, silent tears, his holy face upturned, and Kadar is shaking, unable to do anything because he knows his brother. He knows Malik is out for blood and this is not something he would be able to stop. There is hate in him, the cruel hand of a coming love that Altaïr can see without trying. He suffers in complete silence until the blows come to a shaking stop, and the swarthy older boy is straddling his waist, both hands planted like Greek marble columns on either side of his head. He breathes hard, sweat dripping from his chin that falls cooled and salty on Altaïr’s exposed chest, his torn shirt laying open like two most piteous legs.

The sack of Rome. The rape of Europa. Leda and the Swan.

He tastes more than he sees the blood, sniffles thickly and though he wants to swallow the bitter mouthful, he spits it to the side, feels it run hot down his cheek. His eyes feel swollen, washed out.

“Why?”

Malik is shaking hard, and when Altaïr reaches up to touch his cheek, there’s a sad sort of pity in it. A strike levels him and he is stretched on Malik’s rack, at his mercy. The older boy does not strike again, though, and Altaïr takes a shuddering breath, hears Kadar’s anguished sob in the background.

“Don’t kill him!” he whines, voice blown and distorted. “Malik stop it!”

“Why did you do it?” he barks, vicious, but the heat is gone from his anger, there is no real bite to it anymore, and though there will probably be more blows, Altaïr has no fear of death, so really, he wishes he could tell Kadar that there’s little reason to cry. “Why did you cut him?”

Altaïr sighs, and it’s a disturbing, almost bubbling sound that comes up from him. He spits a little more blood that seeps down his broken lips, mingling, thicker.

“He asked me,” he growls around his own swollen lips, trying to be clear. There is no blow this time, and he waits for a minute, wondering if he should test his luck. “He asked me for guidance… and I gave him what little I could.”

“So you would make him into yourself? Haughty and arrogant, what a joke,” Malik spits, and there’s a minor scuffle in which Kadar tries to pin back those flying fists.

Altaïr is unsurprised that it works. There’s something about the boy that makes Altaïr think that Malik would never lay a hand on him, even if it were something that he certainly should be doing. The weight is gone, and he can hear the two hissing at each other like a pair of coiled snakes, so he rolls onto his side to breathe easier, still labored and shaky, knowing that he’s going to have a bit of downtime while he recovers from that beating Malik had been so ready to give him. Malik’s feet sound heavy, even on the plush Persian carpet that dominates most of this small room, thumping ominously toward him, but the gentle way he picks Altaïr up and gently places him over his shoulder is strange, out of place. Obviously Kadar has said something to calm him... or at least make him come back to his senses for a moment.

He’s gently placed in the sprawling bathroom, and it’s Kadar’s hands he feels on his tender skin, wiping with a damp, warm cloth, mothering gently. He can still feel Malik nearby, though, unwilling to trust, unable to fathom why anyone would ask for such a horrible thing to happen to him. His vision comes around enough and he can see that Malik did a real number on him, with Kadar’s damp cloth coming back more red than white each time he hesitates.

“Blow your nose,” he urges gently, holding the cloth, and though Altaïr’s hesitant to comply at first, he does as he’s asked, gags and ends up turning aside to spit out a thick clot of blood. Broken nose, definitely. They’ll need to set it. He gently pulls Kadar in close.

“Bring a doctor… but one with a tight lip, understood?” he murmurs. “There’s more damage than you’ll be able to mend.”

“You’d be surprised,” Kadar sighs, though he’s not as vibrant now… not nearly as cheerful. Worry looks unfamiliar and threatening on his smooth brow. As though it might stick there if it remains too long, and Altaïr almost feels compelled to try and wipe it away with a damp cloth of his own. “You don’t need stitches or anything… just some cold compresses and that nose will have to be set and taped. This is part of what I’m learning to do for the brotherhood.”

The young Al-Sayf sighs as Malik obviously storms off to go get the items requested of him, though it’s clear enough he’d really rather not. Kadar’s fingers are gentle as he turns Altaïr’s face here and there, inspecting his broken nose and perhaps thinking of the best way to go about fixing it. He gently changes his grip so that both thumbs brace the bridge of Altaïr’s nose, and with no warning at all, he starts to move it. The young master goes as stiff as a plank, a sound of pure agony wrings past his lips, and he tries to fight, but the pain is already over and he goes limp, gasping softly, squirming in the tub. He can feel fresh blood, though it’s not as bad as the initial break.

Malik has returned, and he’s more subtle now, actually worried that he may have done more damage than he expected. Kadar silently takes what he’s being given, though, and Altaïr sighs a little, knowing the worst of it is over even though it hurts when Kadar gently tapes the bridge of his nose in hopes it will stay properly positioned. He helps Altaïr shed his torn clothing, and to Altaïr’s surprise, Malik does not go.

The water runs, and Kadar, perhaps trying to spare Altaïr’s dignity to some degree, covers his more intimate parts and lets the tub slowly fill, gently cleaning away blood and tending to whatever scuffs he can find. The master will have two swollen black eyes tomorrow and there’s no way around it, but he still does what he can, icing the sour yellow skin, gently feeding Altaïr a few tablets of acetaminophen. The young master drifts off while the bath is still filling and Kadar is ever so gently mothering him, tending to his wounds.

He does not wake until what he thinks is probably a good twenty or thirty minutes later. Kadar’s voice is dominating the room. He’s clearly upset… probably as close as he ever gets to being angry. They’re discussing - or rather, Kadar is explaining - something having to do with concussions, and Altaïr realizes almost immediately what that means. He sighs and touches the cooled fabric that’s been laid across his swollen nose and eyes, feels Kadar’s hands on his wrist almost immediately.

“Just stay still. Rest. You’re not feeling dizzy at all, are you?”

“No,” Altaïr replies gently. “I’m fine. Just tired…”

“Do you remember what happened?” There’s a distinct edge of anxiety in the boy’s voice, and Altaïr can’t help but smile a little as he feels the bed sink a little. He squeezes Kadar’s fingers gently.

“If it helps, I can’t see any fingers… and yes. I remember what happened.” There’s a cool silence in the room, and the taste of Malik’s guilt is an awful lot like a fine wine to Altaïr at the moment. “I’m not going to be saying much of anything. You have my word. What happened between us is just that. Between us.”

There’s a silent sort of understanding. Clearly Malik has relaxed a bit because Altaïr can hear him settle on the window seat, and there’s a gentle shift as Kadar lays himself down, gently throwing an arm over Altaïr’s middle. He feels the warmth even through the blankets. He already knows what Kadar’s going to say even before he opens his mouth, and he is more than welcoming the idea while he almost surely has a concussion, needs to have someone keep an eye on him.

“We’re staying here for a little while… you know, just to keep an eye on you,” his hand holds a little tighter at Altaïr’s narrow waist while he speaks, and Altaïr can see the gentle concern on the boy’s face even if his eyes are still covered, the way Kadar’s eyes seem to just go silvery because he’s been crying the the red washes out all of the blue. A hand reaches out blindly, but he follows Kadar’s chest and neck up to a cheek, gently thumbing away a little moisture, feels the heat of his skin.

“Good… you’ll check often?”

“Yeah. We need to make sure he didn’t knock you around too much.” Kadar gently moves that hand back down, but doesn’t let go of it, threading his fingers to hold almost reassuringly, but there’s something else there that Altaïr can’t quite read, and he’s fairly aware that it must have a lot to do with the earlier advances.

He pushes the thoughts aside and yawns a little, feeling as sleepy as this kind of head injury should warrant, but something’s bugging him. He hesitates. “I… didn’t finish my story…” he observes, frowning a little.

“Malik knows the story of Gilgamesh…” Kadar pipes up, having forgotten, but now suddenly wanting nothing more than to hear a good story again. Malik heaves a weary sigh from the other side of the room, doesn’t seem so very inclined to come over. “Please, Malik…” Altaïr already knows the power of Kadar’s puppy eyes, and he can actually hear Malik starting to sway as if it were the sound of steel bending.

“Kadar.”

“Malik… you… you’d really say no?” he whimpers softly, and all of a sudden, there’s the heavy trod of the older boy. He kicks off his boots and falls into the bed, stirring up a whiff of his spicy musk that Altaïr shamelessly breathes in, feeling a thrill of excitement at being so close to someone who nearly snuffed him out only moments before. From Malik’s clear state of ease, seeing Altaïr’s blood must have convinced him that he’s just as soft and vulnerable as anyone else is, in certain ways… that they’re both just kids, in the grand scheme of things, and that titles really don’t mean much here. Kadar is quietly celebrating, curling close and actually gently resting his head on Altaïr’s bony shoulder, despite his brother’s throaty grumble at such a show of affection.

He begins speaking, though he seems a little unsure of himself, perhaps. As he falls into the story, though, Altaïr sees that he has no power like this boy does, cannot organize his thoughts and project them with the clarity and feeling that Malik has, and something that already existed within him changes, twists painfully in his chest. As much as he wants to stay awake, listen to that smooth voice, he starts drifting, and slowly but surely, he sinks down into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Would that it would remain that way.

It’s well into the witching hour and a few checks in when the apple comes to him like a lover, caressing his mind, drawing him into the place of congress. Minerva stands, ever the Goddess, holding the representation of Her gilded cage in one delicate looking hand. She does not smile, only stares with Her unnatural orange gaze, hawk eyes leveled on the grown man that She has drawn into this ethereal meeting place. Altaïr cocks his head, heavy with the black brocade hood that shadows his vaguely unfamiliar face as he pads forward, stops and kneels before Her because it is the respect that She commands, and not that which She has earned.

“I assume you have some puzzle to give me,” he hums, but there is no disrespect in it. Only a curiosity. The Ancient has been tickling his brain from the moment the glowing orb was first handed to him. It is neutral, loyal in many ways, even though its whispers are hard to fathom at best. Minerva is not so. She has no allegiances, no loyalty, and no love. He thinks She finds these things lacking, or perhaps they just open up doors to other vulnerabilities. Either way, She does not play any game that is not Her own. Altaïr has learned over the last few months - or perhaps eons in this place - that he is little more than Her pawn, the first step in some unfathomably massive cosmic chess board.

“You are young,” She states with utter certainty, “though you wear the flesh of a wiser man. Why is this?”

“I do not know,” he responds, honest in his complete cluelessness. He has learned, also, that it is best to keep his presumptions to himself because they are consistently wrong. Embarrassingly wrong. “I was hoping… that perhaps you might know.”

She knows everything. That is what Her vaguely malevolent gaze says, at least, and She pins him with nothing short of a poisonous glare, though Her lips do not even twitch. She is too dignified for a scowl. She waves a hand, and like magic, the Illusion weaves, a whole infinite universe at her fingertips. Stars wheel through the darkness, the spiral arm of a galaxy lazily passing over them, through them both.

“You are as you will one day be,” She explains, slowly, as if speaking to a particularly thick child. She draws the apple in close to Her chest again, holding it lightly in two hands. “You will be wise and fair. Your words will bear weight with all of your Brotherhood. You will have dominion over every man who follows your Creed, and bring them strength when they need it most. This is only a glimpse, but one that is necessary. I cannot allow you to forget your place, Aquila.”

Of course not. There’s always a catch, no matter what message it is Her whim to deliver. Altaïr raises an eyebrow, tilts his head again. She waits for a long time, keeping a hard eye on him, watching for any sign of further possible disrespect before She continues. Altaïr knows this is little more than show. It is put on. She knows every single move he will make before he even has the thought of moving, so far-reaching is her sight. Perhaps knowing just how trapped he is in this game is what keeps him in line, whether it is truthful or only a well-placed boast. He’d rather not chance it. However little it is, Her blood runs in his veins, gives him a mere glimpse at Her sight. It was She who unlocked this potential.

“You are the one who opens the door,” She reminds him, though it’s surprisingly gentle this time, surprisingly sounds almost sentimental. “You will be the one who sets the plans into motion. You must be strong, Aquila. The next in line is before you now. You must prepare him, no matter how much you believe he can accomplish the task on his own.”

He knows it’s foolish, but he lifts his voice anyway. “Will Ezio be the one? You have so many plans, I can’t even fathom, but is he the one you were looking for?”

“No.” She does not spare the sense of disappointment in Her tone, voice somewhat distorted by distance now. They are drawing apart. Not much time left. He knows she has become weak, putting so much effort into directing him. “No, this Eagle is not the one. You have drawn the map… but the Eagle will be the one who speaks for me. I grow tired, Aquila. I am not as I once was.”

He feels something in his chest tug at that thought, almost longs to ask her how he can help a man change himself, how he could possibly help a Goddess of some bygone age manage to accomplish something that She could not do Herself, but before he gets the chance to ask on impulse, the stars fade out and there is only the darkness of a sleep without dreams. There is nothing new that he has learned, only an urgent reminder and a million more questions than ever before, as it often is whenever he meets Her in dreams.

If he could bring himself to care, hovering just over the dark waters of deep sleep, he might be a bit disappointed.


End file.
